


Half There

by WhelminglyAsterous



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Gen, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, I Tried, I don't know what this is prepare yourself, My First Fanfic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Streamers IRL, Tommy gives the best angst let's be honest, my writing style WILL change fight me, no beta we die like men, no beta we die like wilbur on november 16th, sleepy boi inc, tommyinnit angst, tysm for reading loves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 06:09:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30034266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhelminglyAsterous/pseuds/WhelminglyAsterous
Summary: There’s someone outside Wilbur’s door, and he wants to be let in.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 66





	Half There

He’s standing outside Wilbur’s door again. 

Tommy’s not quite sure how he keeps ending up in this situation. He’s pretty sure it’s becoming an issue. Once again, he’s found himself motionless in the middle of the hall, pulling on the hem of his shirt and listening to the dull hum of the AC turn on. 

There’s nothing extraordinary about Wilbur’s office building. The carpet is itchy, the wallpaper looks cheap, and the door is painted in this awful grey color that vaguely makes Tommy want to punch whoever invented such an ugly color of paint. But it’s better than everything else, Tommy supposes, so he’s here. 

In retrospect, he’s actually come to enjoy the subtle discomfort that comes with standing outside Wilbur’s office. The absolutely disgusting decor grounds him, stops him from floating away. Recently it’s been easier to let go of everything around him. He guesses that’s what happens when nothing holds the same meaning that it used to, when all your ties are cut. Like a balloon discarded to the wind, he’s hollow inside, and so very small among the vastness of the sky.

Fuck. He’s gotten so fucking philosophical and its barely been less than a week. This was some Ranboo-level angst. He could get so many views if he started a podcast or some shit. 

Tommy immediately regrets that idea. Fucking hell his stupid lore depression arc was so boring to stream, a podcast would be a bloody nightmare.

Tommy’s head shoots upwards at what sounds like an explosion of sound but is probably only a flurry of quiet conversation drifting towards him from across the hallway. An employee walks out of the office talking on her phone and turns the corner, heels clicking mutely against the carpet even after she’s no longer in sight. Tommy lingers on where he last sees her before flicking his gaze back to Wilbur’s door. The murmur of conversation floating from the other office’s open doorway is like being doused with cold water. The feeling stays with him even after the door shuts with a gentle click and engulfs him in quiet yet again. 

Time passes by him, ruffling around him like a gentle breeze, begging for attention but being given none. Tommy sighs, his hands coming up to scrub his face, maybe wake him up a little more. He needs to go, needs to leave this godforsaken place before Wilbur finishes streaming. Before Wilbur finishes streaming and comes out to find Tommy standing there like a goddamn lost puppy in week old clothes with scratches on his arms and a grocery bag of peanut butter and 3 water bottles at his feet. Before Wilbur finishes streaming and comes out and has  _ questions _ , questions that Tommy won’t be able to answer because he doesn’t even know how he got into this situation in the first place and he’s  _ sixteen  _ for fuck’s sake and he’s not a child who needs help dealing with his petty problems, especially not from Wilby because goddamn he’s got enough shit to worry about on his own and now Tommy’s arms are shaking like a limp pathetic leaf, piss  _ fuck  _ shit-

Tommy jolts as an excited shout is heard from the other side of the stupid grey door. It sounds like Wilbur’s having a good stream. Tommy lets out a huff of breath. No need to bother him. He turns slowly, using all of his energy to hold himself together, and picks his plastic bag up off the floor. Squaring his shoulders he walks down the hall and out the entrance, resolutely not looking back at Wilbur’s door. This is  _ not  _ something he will be making a habit of. Tommy tells himself that he won’t be coming back.

  
  


\---

  
  


It’s raining this time. 

Tommy’s shoes are soaked through as he runs down the streets, splashing through puddles uncaringly even as the bottom of his jeans turn dark and itchy from the water. He glances at his phone and picks up the pace, neatly dodging a couple sharing an umbrella and rounding the corner when he spots the office building off to his left.

He needs to hurry today. Wilbur’s actually been maintaining some semblance of a not quite fucked up sleep schedule lately, and his streams have been earlier than usual. What a shit thing of Wilbur to do to him.

Tommy has  _ things  _ he needs to do today. Actual important fucking things that could maybe, just possibly, improve his current situation. But no, instead his brain decides that sprinting through the streets of Brighton in the pouring rain with a flimsy 99p store jacket on his back just to stand uselessly outside that wanker’s door was an absolutely pog idea. Brilliant.

Tommy huffs as he enters the building, sighing at the warmth that engulfs him as the door closes behind him. He savors the dry atmosphere a moment longer before desperately patting himself down to make sure he doesn't look like a homeless lunatic who just fell into the nearest river. He’s pretty sure this is what it feels like to be Badboyhalo. 

His feet carry him through the building, the way carved into his heart with how many times he’s been here. He pauses outside Wilbur’s door, listening for a second to make sure he’s still streaming. 

Tommy releases his breath as a high pitched laugh sounds from inside as convenient confirmation and he slowly rests his forehead against the cheap wood, any tension dwindles from his body. He lets himself stay there, breathing in the smell of cleaning supplies and letting the vague murmuring from Wilbur wash over him. The adrenaline from sprinting through rain is fading now, and a deep weariness settles into his bones. Tommy can feel a headache coming on. His eyes are burning and a tear or two slips out and mixes with the rainwater still dripping down his neck, leaving behind itchy trails on his cheeks. A slow breath is let out.  _ Fuck _ . It had only been three weeks, and already Tommy feels like he’s drowning. 

It’s alright though, because even though he’s drowning, Wilbur’s here. There’s a shore and sun and a possibility of rescue, and Wilbur’s still here. Maybe Wilbur’s not beneath the waves with him, savoring the bubbles and counting down how much oxygen he has left, but Wilbur’s here. Waiting on the peaceful side of the world where there’s pretty beaches and streams of sunlight and a guitar and all the fucking sand that idiot could ever want to eat. All Tommy has to do is keep trying and he’ll get there. 

He glances at his phone and curses under his breath.  _ Fucking hell _ he was going to miss his chance if he didn’t leave right now. He takes one last breath before sprinting down the hall and out into the pouring rain once again.

Wilbur opens his door that night to a damp puddle outside his door. He doesn’t notice it.

  
  


\---

  
  


It’s late, almost two in the morning. 

If Tommy wasn’t so tired he would have left an angry twitter post complaining about latest “Tubbo and Ranboo Wholesome Moments” video to get his anger out, an entertaining coping mechanism of sorts, but as it is all he can do is silently curse that stupid motherfucker of an arsehole out in his head. He had to fucking sneak into the office like a fucking raccoon because of that shithead. He doubts Wilbur was allowed into the building this late, but the “not tired. 2am. let’s hang.” streams were iconic at this point. 

Rubbing his hands together to dissuade the midnight chill from seeping into his bones, Tommy clambers his way up the stairs and passes the kitchen. The hallway looks abandoned in the darkness, the exit sign glowing pitifully in the night like a single lighthouse attempting to provide refuge against a thunderstorm. If Tubbo were here he would have shit his pants, but the darkness didn’t bother Tommy. He’s gotten used to it by now.

A soft glow emits from the crack below Wilbur’s door, and Tommy stares at it as he approaches the office. His eyebrows furrow. He doesn’t even have a genuine reason to be here this time. He’s not upset and seeking the comfort of being in the same building as someone else he knows. He isn’t incredibly lost or panicked or in need of calming down. He isn’t even contemplating visiting Wilbur for reals, thinking about actually opening the door and just dealing with the aftermath like he had that one time. He had just... gotten the notification that Wilbur was streaming and instinctively climbed out of his warm, itchy pile of cheap blankets arranged on the floor and gave a resigned sigh as he walked out the door. 

He longs to just go back and bury himself in the warmth of his blankets, and that’s saying something because his blankets are god awful. Just shit with fuzz that trap precisely none of his body heat. Like the opposite of a greenhouse. A stilted sound escapes his mouth. Maybe if he didn’t fuck up like a pussy next time, like he did two days ago, he could splurge and buy himself a sleeping bag, or even a little pump-up air mattress. Now that was something to look forward to. It’s been 5 weeks, he deserves a fucking bed.

Well, there was nothing he could do about it now, standing in the middle of a technically closed office building at 2:46 in the morning. Tommy glances down and vaguely wonders how tired he must be because the ground is looking awfully appealing. He really isn’t feeling awake enough to be anywhere else but at his shabby apartment, snuggled in his Poundland blankets and sleeping at least 4 more hours, but missing Wilbur’s stream seems equally impossible. Would it really be so bad to just sit against Wilbur’s door until the stream ends and then get the hell out before Wilbur opens his door to find Tommy craving human interaction like a starved cat on the carpet floor? 

Apparently the answer to that question is no because Tommy finds himself sitting down and leaning his head against the doorframe before he realizes what he’s doing. He can hear Wilbur singing softly, giving chat a sneak peak of his latest song, completed with expletives when he fucks up and a cat piano solo. Tommy’s asleep before he even notices that his eyes have slipped closed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this fic! This is my first time trying out creative writing, my first fanfiction, and my first post on this website. I hope you enjoyed it. This is mainly for me to practice and hone my writing skills while having a little fun. That being said, any comments, criticism, suggestions, advice, or anything really is welcome.
> 
> Vaguely inspired by a batfam fic I read years ago- A Boy Half There by mimirshead.  
> Samson by Regina Spektor for the vibe
> 
> Goodbye loves! <3 Remember to stay safe and wear a mask (pls for fucks sake wear a mask)
> 
> \- Timbers


End file.
